


Flame That Came From Me

by rabiosareads



Category: Star Wars - All Media Types, The Mandalorian (TV)
Genre: Age Difference, Angst with a Happy Ending, Awkward Tension, Boba Fett Needs A Hug, Body Worship, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Established Relationship, F/M, Reader-Insert, Smut, he makes me nervous lmao, more tags as the story progresses!, no really he does
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2021-02-01
Updated: 2021-01-31
Packaged: 2021-03-18 17:53:54
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,400
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/29122227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rabiosareads/pseuds/rabiosareads
Summary: Your beginning, middle, and end always ended up with Boba Fett. That's just the way it should be.
Relationships: Boba Fett & Reader, Boba Fett & You, Boba Fett/Reader, Boba Fett/You
Comments: 6
Kudos: 36





	Flame That Came From Me

Time was a tricky thing, you’ve come to find out.

It was relentless. On going. Continuous, nonstop, not a lodge in sight to push into its breaks that could prevent it from stopping on the steel tracks. It could be measured in languid blinks or hurried breaths, observed by the rising Tatooine suns casting its shadows over the russet clay huts and dancing sand like those before you had done, felt in between the sweltering hold of the sun or the cool dirt beneath your feet. It’s there when you close your eyes, when you tasted the morning’s grit in between your teeth, when you’ve been crying for so long that your headache melted into a permanent brick wall. Time is precious yet terrifying, it pretends to be on your side until it wants the best from you, slipping a careful hand into your pocket and kissing you in the dark until you’re left with nothing but the fond memory of it. You hated time. You were always chasing after it and while it watched you, you would cry for mercy. 

But time was also beside you. 

You squinted at the rising suns, a weak hand shielding you from its rays. The sand built on your sweating upper lip and the creases of your nose, itching its deep russet and beige into your skin. Your throat lurched at the speeding heat, reminding yourself to make a supply run when you go back into town. You turned your back to the sudden, lowering your eyes at the rising marigold and blood orange rays, letting the heat bask on your exposed limbs a little bit longer.

You’ve gotten used to its jagged whips on your skin and you’ve wasted enough time shaking it from your hair and boots. You even recalled when you liked the heat. You remembered when you would chuckle to your traveling patrons when you helped your father at his small fabric stand, boasting about how it didn’t bother you, even if you were relieved to take warm showers in your home, that it gave you that beautifully flushed glow on your skin. You even lowered your smooth top to reveal supple shoulders, kissed with your complexion that held a radiance that couldn’t match the parched air outside.

The same skin he liked. 

The type of skin he used to nip in between his front teeth, press hard kisses from his chapped lips, calloused hands aged with violence and grace that kept you shivering throughout the night--

_ No no,  _ you shook off, gathering yourself from the balls of your feet to round your shoulders.  _ I have too much to do today.  _

You did not have time to be wasting heavy tears on a man like that. No, you considered, he was more than ‘a man like that’. Enigmatic, dangerous in the way his heavy steps would scrape the sand, heart made of steel, stone and lava. Tongue as sharp as vibroblades, as fatal as wolf’s teeth to your throat. Crowds would part like bloody seas and whispers would slither around his familiar helmet, bruised and cruel, blinding you from the harsh rays that casted down on you every time you saw him come back home. 

How time had passed between the two of you.

* * *

You were a pretty little thing when he met you, or at least that’s what they called you when you entered the cantina in search of your father. A man with many debts and little excuses, you’d always come to Mos Eisley skipping along the scum and dirt of the floors, staggering towards his curled figure over the bar. 

You ignored the slimy calls to your person and kept trotting towards your father, who was at the time nursing his fourth cup of spotchka. You laid a gentle hand on his shoulder and he jumped hard, flailing his hands up. He sighed deeply when he saw your gentle smile, pitiful yet understanding, sliding some credits to the bartender to cover the bill you knew he couldn’t.

You did this weekly, multiple times in fact, but they told you to stop. Don’t atone for your father’s trouble, he is a man that has seen so many cycles he should’ve picked up a lesson in between each phase. However you couldn’t, that was the type of person you were. Always so giving, open and bleeding palms, always so stubborn to deny it for them. Some may call it a saving grace or naivety, but this was all you knew. Your eyes saw more than what others did. Their vision was covered in a film of fear and caution while yours watered with compassion, a kind of humanity that worked against the coarse grains.

On a planet like Tatooine? Not a chance.

“You know honey, your pops is here more and more now,” one of them says, a green Cyclops with a slobbering tongue. “Wonder what he got himself into…”

You did not belong here. They could  _ smell  _ it off of you. You kept your face hardened and still, careful to not even blink at their incessant hollering, waiting for your father to sip his last glass of spotchka.

You then felt watched-- no,  _ stalked _ \-- by a pair of beskar eyes, slouched in a booth, surrounded by hideous men of every walk of life. 

“I hear he made a deal with the Hutts,” another man commented, throwing the shot of spicy liquor to the back of his throat. “What a sucker.”

You stayed quiet, biting the inside of your cheek with great force. You chew on pieces of your flesh, hoping your father would blink away his kaleidoscope vision to focus on how  _ fucking nervous  _ you were to be in such a place. You shook his shoulder firmly, pressing your fingertips into his damp tunic as a warning.

“C’mon, please…” you whispered, continuing to press down.

His head weaved back and forth, eyes glossed with such a pitiful clear red that if you weren’t his blood you’d feel stupidly sorry for him. Instead you pushed it aside, trying to show the patrons that you were indeed not ashamed of his behavior but complicit and perhaps stronger. 

“Well do you old man? Do you work for the Hutts?” The Cyclops mocked, licking his thin lips and dripping his saliva on the table. The bartender wiped it down with a pensive frown.

“I’m, I uh,” he began to trail off, running his hand through his thinning hair.

You watched as he placed his hand on your wrist, wobbling in the chipped wooden stool to untangle his ankles. He doesn’t dare to look at you, in fear that you would find the truth swimming in his stained breath and flushed cheeks, however you did not need that kind of context clue. You already knew his frenzied attempt to make it all okay, for you to not worry how he could pay for his taxes to the market or to catch up on his various loans that you do not dare to question. That would keep you up at night, besides the blisters on your toes and strained back. Just the thought of him, well for a lack of a better word, embarrassing himself and thus yourself? Unbearable to say the least.

That same shadow watched you from the corner, cut in between the bleeding light of the suns and the ominous crowd that circled around him. His gaze was ducked, perfectly aligned to your torso up, scanning the way your shoulders tensed at each burst of laughter. His head moved when yours did, mimicking your frantic eyes with smooth spreads of his hardened stare. He shifted in his booth to lean forward, his boots clinking against each other.

“Father, come on, please,” you practically begged, shoving a hand up his armpits to raise him up further. “Get  _ up  _ already.”

“Sweetheart, he’s not going anywhere--”

“-- yeah kid he belongs with the Hutts now, poor bastard--”

“-- Come, we’ll take care of you while he works himself to  _ death  _ trying to dig himself out of his hell hole--”

What came past you was a flash of army green and bright blood red. You blinked in rhythm of the blaster shots, the banging of skull onto floor and each yelp from the scattered patrons. You found yourself on your knees, holding on to your father’s ankle pathetically. Your arm throbbed dully, each pulse coming back stronger and somehow wetter. You looked down to notice a gash across your bicep, still smoking and splintering with cranberry beads of blood. You had no time to react, snapping your head upwards to see if your father was okay. He sat there, hands pressed into his ears, eyes closed in silent prayer.

Your shoulders shook in on themselves and your blood curdled into something so cold that you shivers crawled up from the balls of your feet to the prickling hair on your arms. For a moment you wondered whether or not to turn around, to face what could be your maker or saving grace. Either way you weren’t going to leave this cantina the same way.

You hissed as you turned your injured arm, the stretch of split skin burning along with the heated remnants of the blaster’s shot. Steadying yourself on the rounded edge of the bar, your gaze began from the spears on his boots, to his chipped cuirass, then finally to his erect arm. He gripped the blaster with such force that you can hear his leather glove warp around the weapon, his helmet cocking to the side. 

The cyclops was on the floor, gulping great bouts of air and holding his bleeding stomach, while the other patron was nowhere to be found. A quiet hum buried itself in your brain, as your body kickstarted its temperature back in and your mind rubbing away the gunsmoke haze, finally taking courage to stare at your saving grace in the face.

“He shouldn’t have been so loud.”

His voice scrapped along his vocador with a jagged edge, deep and rich, sending another tremor in your body. You wondered if you looked like a small child gripping your father desperately, however you gulped away that unnecessary nuance to stare at him.

He stretched his arm up to raise you up. Pensively you take it, switching to your good arm when the slight pull made you wince, your ankles twisting around each other. His hand was warm but against yours it was scorching hot, as if the leather would melt off onto you, while his grip was surprisingly gentle.

You chewed on your bottom lip, finding the words to thank him in a way that didn’t make your voice shake or eyes water. Except he turned his back on you while you stood as straight as you could. Your breath is uneven when the sound of his spurs pierces the air, slow and steady towards the man on the floor.

“Get up,” he commanded. “You’re no good to me dead.”

You had no idea if this was a dream or not. Maybe it was, considering the way his movements were blurred like a mirage, bleeding sunlight into your squinted stare until all you saw was warm white light. He saved you and yet he did not. Was this his doing out of kindness, or did you find yourself to be the luckiest girl in the galaxy? 

He shoved the man upwards without a huff, dragging his knees on the floor. Cuffs clicked around his thick wrists, twisting his elbows in, adding more pressure to the black hole in his stomach. Blood dripped into the cracks of the wooden floor and onto the sand, sucking up the dense liquid with a simmering drop.

Everyone stood still, some even dared to whisper to each other about the helmeted man. Your father remained in his stool, urging you to shake off whatever was on your mind and to pay attention to your arm.

You heard his name as clear as day, washing your sunburnt mind.  _ Boba Fett. _

You ignored the hot blood dripping on your fingertips, combining with the cyclops’. 

* * *

Luck was a strange thing to have, too.

Never on your side, never in your pocket. Some carried it in the form of weighted dice, scratched off Sabacc cards or even a piece of a Bantha’s horn, however yours was… sheer coincidence? A series of events that lined up so perfectly that it wasn’t luck, more of a privileged set that fell onto your lap in such a particular way that you owed it no favors? 

Regardless of what you would call it, luck seemed to have picked up your scent and followed you around. As much as you didn’t believe in it you wanted it to grant you a small wish, something to satisfy your palate for the time being. This came in the form of searching for your beskar grace.

You stayed longer in the cantinas to listen in, grabbing any sort of information that you can about this Boba Fett. You heard that he was a ruthless bounty hunter with a kill list that walked miles and that he was a mercenary that took credits in his bloodstained fists from anyone and anywhere. Enough of that kind of talk would’ve made your blood prickle into ice and yet it had given you some peace of mind. You were in the right place, right time, with the right threat and the right blaster wound in your arm that hissed when sand got into it. 

You weren’t his enemy. He wasn’t yours.

Or maybe you were just lucky.

“Luck had nothing to do with it,” you explained bitterly to the bartender when he asked, scraping your nail against the chipping paint. “Just coincidence.”

Coincidence. A minor case of concurrent events that just happen to fit ever so perfectly within each wedge and sharp turn. Casual connection.  _ Right _ .

Just as comparable to the way your mind just casually connected these series of events, they kept going back to the armored man. It was silly to continue to put too much importance on something incomplex, you knew this. Your shoulders remained taut with attention at the blinding door, hoping the answers will sweep in like the jagged winds of the hot, dense air. Your throat was tight, swallowing back the scratching sensation with the lame taste of tap water.

_ How weird, _ you thought,  _ how weird life works.  _

You stretched your arms across the bar while waiting for your father to arrive back from his meeting two booths over. As much as you wanted to gulp down a ladle of spotchka and let the liquid swim in your belly with the same bliss that your father felt every night, someone had to be mindful enough to make it back home. You dug your thumb back into the lifting paint, biting your tongue in concentration.

The sound heavy spurs brought back your attention, clicking in the air like arriving chimes to a choir. You froze for a brief moment, ice climbing up your spine in childish anticipation. The crowd lulled into a dull murmur, the spurs swaying back and forth. They had heavy steps, the kind that would drag dully yet grind back down, so measured and heavy. Your skin trilled upwards, wanting to turn around and confirm your suspicions but you knew better. You knew that humility was the best policy.

“It’s healing well.”

His voice was just as you remembered, disembodied and sparking something deep in your belly. Your back stayed to him, spine more erect and hips pushed back in the stool in an attempt to look taller. In the corner of your eye you saw the flash of dark green and machine grey, with slivers of worn leather. As he got closer he smelled like the sand and blaster smoke, something that has stayed in the back of your throat since, weighing down your body with a band that was threatening to snap against your skin. 

You cocked your head towards your healing arm, wrapped in beige cloth. The scar tissue underneath was stark white, a much better look than the bubbling scarlet and black from before. The raised tissue sat against the protection of the cloth, reeking of expired bacta. 

A thick finger pressed your shoulder blade, hard enough to dent the tense muscle below. You finally turned fully to face him, taking a deep breath and swallowing back anything you’d regret telling him.

It seemed like he had more dents than the last time, scattered about on his helmet and chestplate. You wondered what may have done such damage; according to the locals he wore a suit thicker and stronger than any metal you’ll ever come across. You wanted to mimic his movement, to press a finger into the dents to try to sink into their stories. 

His finger dragged up to your arm, stopping at the messy bow you wrestled with that morning. If it wasn’t healed to near perfection you’d hiss, only due to your impatience. He stopped at the knot, his helmet following your head upward. Cool, calculated, careful. 

“Yes,” was the only thing you croaked out pathetically. 

“You shouldn’t tie the knot so tight,” he commented. “Restricts blood flow correctly. Plus you’re already healed, so it’s not necessary.”

“Even with the bacta on?”

“Yes.”

_ Maker, where is that ladle of spotchka now? _

“Who are you here with?” he asked, sliding in between you and the next stool. He remained still, his chest being the only giveaway that he was human.

You felt braver than most. “Do you need to know?”

A huff of air escaped his vocador like a snake, his finger settling on the left corner of your covered scar. “A girl like you shouldn’t be in a place like this.”

“Oh?” you raised your brow, twirling the glass of water with your finger.

“If you’re here to get your father, I suggest you let him handle his business. It’s not good to end up in the same mess as him.”

The anticipation of seeing Boba bled from your feet. You frowned, biting the inside of your cheek. You knew better than to tolerate men this way, especially men that didn’t seem to mind their own business.

“Thank you, but  _ we’re _ fine,” you emphasized on behalf of your father.

“Would hate to see a young girl like you in something like that.”

“This young girl knows more than you’re assuming.”

Your words made no attempt to move him. You held your breath, the pressure ballooning your ribs. Clouds of warm yellow bloomed across your bodies, whistling winds trailing up your ear. His stare, or what is to be assumed his stare, was too much for comfort. You felt so  _ small  _ next to him, as if he would scoop you up with careful hands and place you somewhere higher up so he can get a better look. You had no idea what the bubble in your belly was telling you, or why his warm voice pooled in your mind like slush, but you remained tight lipped.

You exhaled when his finger left your wound.

He turned around towards the crowd and you raised your hand. He grabbed your wrist suddenly, causing you to hiss in surprise. His grip, tight and hot, dug in your veins uncomfortably. 

“Is your name Boba Fett?” you swallowed, blinking away any slivers of fear.

“Possibly.”

You huffed once he loosened his grip. “Well… possibly Boba Fett. I  _ possibly _ would like to thank you for the other day. Not for the arm though.”

“You think your arm was my fault?”

“Absolutely. Your blaster, your fault. May need to get some liability insurance for it, too.”

Your joke went over his helmet and you cursed at your mind thinking  _ that  _ was a good idea. However his grip began to lax, his thumb rubbing circles into the joint bones. The warm pool felt like overflowing, swirling at the edge of the porcelain dangerously. He released your arm and let out a modulated chuckle, tapping your chin up with two fingers.

“You’re an interesting girl. It was mere luck that I was looking for them. Count yourself lucky.”

He left you at the bar, new burns dragging up your jawline and chin. You swallowed that balloon of air with gulps of water, trying to play off the thick air as casual conversation.

“Luck. Yeah.”

**Author's Note:**

> I just wanted to get this out the way because I have Boba brain rot and if it doesn't go away I will lose my mind lmao
> 
> Enjoy!


End file.
